Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Emily lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the smooth stone ceiling above her. The moon had risen, pale light spilling through the high windows of Emily’s chamber. The magical orbs overhead cast a soft, steady glow that flickered faintly when she moved.

She had no idea how long she’d been lying there. Hours, maybe. Or none at all.

Her thoughts spun in circles, looping back to Caelan’s words—“First thing in the morning.” Like that meant anything here.

What even counted as morning in a place like this?

Eventually, she gave up.

With a frustrated sigh, she threw the covers back and climbed out of bed. Her feet hit the cool floor, grounding her. She crossed to the vanity and splashed water on her face from the bowl Varis had left. The chill helped.

Emily dressed quickly, pulling on her orange robes with practiced motions. She smoothed the fabric, then sat at the vanity and began brushing her hair—slow, steady strokes until the snarls were gone and the strands lay flat. She pulled it back into a messy, tight bun, securing it with trembling fingers. It wasn’t elegant, but it kept it out of her face. Her reflection looked more composed than she felt.

When she finished, she moved to the chair beside the bed and sat—straight-backed, alert, watching the door like it might suddenly swing open.

It didn’t.

The ember sigil on her hand glowed faintly in the dim room, pulsing with that strange inner warmth. She stared at it, then at the stillness beyond her door.

Waiting.

She must’ve dozed off.

One moment, she was sitting in the chair, eyes fixed on the door—waiting, brimming with restless anticipation—and the next, she was jolted awake by a firm, warm hand gently shaking her shoulder.

Emily gasped softly and blinked, breath catching in her throat as her eyes focused.

Caelan was kneeling beside her.

His black curls were damp, clinging in soft waves around his face, drops of water still tracing along his jaw. He smelled faintly of something earthy and clean—woodsmoke and something a little sweet, something rich. It was intoxicating. Too much, especially this close.

She stared. For just a second too long.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low. “Did you sleep in this chair all night?”

His silver eyes held hers—steady and kind.

Emily blinked, then shook herself and stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair back. Her hands flew to her robes, smoothing them unnecessarily. “No—I’m fine. I was just… up early. Must’ve dozed for a second.”

Caelan rose after her, slower, more deliberate. He was taller than she remembered from this angle. Still smelled like the woods and—

Something else.

Something warmer, sharper. She couldn’t place it, couldn’t name it, but it curled into her lungs like it belonged there. Whatever it was, it tugged at something in her.

She looked away quickly.

One corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk. “Mm. Right. Well, if you’re ready, I think you’ll need two things first.”

She blinked. “Two?”

“Food,” he said, turning toward the door, “and maca.”

Emily frowned. “Maca?”

He glanced back, the smirk deepening. “It’s a root blend. Good for fatigue. You’ll need it.”

“Like… tea?”

“More like getting punched awake by a lightning storm,” Caelan said mildly. “But it works.”

The kitchen was vast, gleaming, and surprisingly quiet for something so central. Magical orbs glowed along the ceiling, casting a clean, bright light over rows of polished counters and stacked copper cookware. A handful of staff moved about with practiced ease, but when Caelan walked in, every one of them paused.

He didn’t acknowledge the sudden stillness. Just strode toward one of the long counters, grabbed a cloth, and plucked something warm and doughy, with a thick layer of spiced egg and meat between two halves of bread.

He held it out to her.

“Eat,” he said.

There was no edge to the word. No snap or command in his tone. But still—it hit her like one. Her fingers closed around the warm bread before she could think twice.

And this time, she didn’t resist.

Because honestly? She was starving.

She took a bite. Flavors she didn’t have names for exploded on her tongue—salty, spicy, rich. It hit like something she’d once craved in a hospital breakroom at 3 a.m., and she closed her eyes for a second just to feel it.

When she opened them, Caelan had moved to the far counter and was quietly preparing something—grinding what looked like dried roots into powder, spooning it into a carved ceramic press. His sleeves were pushed up, exposing the black glyph on his forearm, angular and sharp against his skin.

One of the kitchen staff, a thin older man with silver thread at his collar, stepped forward hesitantly.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a bow, “we can take care of that for you—”

“There’s no need,” Caelan replied, not looking up. His voice was even. Calm. But his eyes flicked briefly toward Emily.

The kitchen worker bowed again and backed off without another word.

Emily watched, still chewing, pulse skipping a little.

He was making her tea.

Personally.

She wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. Maybe it was the casual competence of it. Or the way his hair, still slightly damp, curled at his neck. Or how steady his hands were, despite the tension she sometimes saw in his shoulders.

She took another bite of the sandwich, watching him work like it was something sacred. Like this version of Caelan—focused, calm, sleeves rolled—was the closest thing to normalcy she’d seen since arriving in this world.

And damn it, it was hot.

The ceramic press hissed faintly as Caelan poured hot water into it from a tall silver kettle. Steam curled upward in twisting ribbons, carrying a scent that hit Emily’s senses like a jolt—sharp, earthy, and vaguely citrusy.

“That’s maca?” she asked around a final bite of the sandwich.

He glanced at her. “Fresh-ground. Stronger that way.”

She swallowed, wiping her hands on the cloth napkin he’d set beside her plate without her even noticing.

“Smells like… if a thunderstorm had roots.”

He huffed a quiet laugh—barely more than a breath—but it was real. “That’s not far off.”

He finished pressing the tea, then poured the amber liquid into a heavy ceramic cup. When he turned, steam still curling from the surface, he offered it to her with both hands.

Emily reached out automatically.

Their fingers brushed.

The contact was brief—but it was enough. A strange heat pulsed in her palm, echoing faintly. Her breath hitched, just slightly, as she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

“You’ll feel it within minutes,” he said. “Energy. Focus. A bit of clarity.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like it’s going to rewire my soul.”

His expression shifted, just a little. “Let’s hope not. Your soul’s been through enough already.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

Caelan stepped back, leaning against the edge of the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest. The light from the kitchen orbs caught in the damp strands of his hair, the shadows sculpting the sharp line of his jaw.

Emily took a sip of the tea—then nearly coughed as the heat and potency hit her tongue.

He smirked again. “Told you.”

“It’s like drinking lightning,” she muttered, eyes watering.

“But you’ll be awake.”

“Awake is an understatement.” She took another careful sip. “This stuff could raise the dead.”

He gave a slow, amused tilt of the head. “You’ll thank me in ten minutes when you’re sprinting through stone walls.”

Emily eyed him warily. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” he admitted. “You’re very expressive when you suffer.”

She scoffed. “Thanks. That’s not at all horrifying to hear from the man who literally owns my pain.”

“‘Own’ is a strong word,” Caelan said, his voice dry. “Borrowed, maybe.”

She lifted the cup again with exaggerated suspicion, then took another sip and winced dramatically. “This is revenge for calling you broody, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” he said, but the faint curve at his mouth deepened into a real, if brief, smile.

She stared at it, half-surprised. A smile from him felt rare—like watching a storm crack open just enough to show sunlight behind it.

Then he gestured to the door, still faintly smiling. “Come on. You can finish it while we walk to the arena.”

Her head snapped up. “There’s an arena here?!”

His smirk returned full force. “Of course there is.”

“You said training grounds! ‘Arena’ sounds way more murder-y!”

“Only if you lose,” he said, already heading for the door.

Emily stared after him, clutching her terrifying cup of tea like a talisman. “That’s not even remotely comforting!”

But she followed.

Emily set her empty mug down on a narrow side table as they reached the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor. The remnants of the maca tea still buzzed in her veins like lightning trapped under her skin. She flexed her fingers, half-expecting to spark.

Then the doors opened—and the world changed.

The corridor gave way to a massive stone chamber, open to the pale morning sky through a retractable ceiling of interlocked metal panels, currently drawn back to let the light pour in. Sunlight spilled across the smooth arena floor—an enormous circle of polished gray rock, veined faintly with glowing silver threads that pulsed like heartbeat lines beneath the surface.

Rows of tiered balconies surrounded the space, lined with deep crimson banners bearing an unfamiliar sigil—Caelan’s, she guessed. Not a single seat was occupied, but the silence made it feel watchful anyway.

High archways lined the outer walls, some leading to weapon racks, others to shadowed alcoves that seemed built for… waiting.

Or hiding.

Or ambush.

Emily took a slow step inside looking up at the seats, her boots echoing faintly against the stone. “This is not a training ground,” she said flatly. “This is a death stage.”

Caelan stepped in beside her, expression unreadable. “You’ll get used to it.”

“That’s a terrifying thing to say.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he strode toward the center, and the silver veins in the floor brightened faintly beneath his feet, responding to his presence.

Emily followed, her eyes tracing every strange detail—runes etched into the walls just beneath the banners, narrow slits near the ceiling for airflow or maybe hidden spectators, and that glint of soul-infused metal embedded deep in the arena’s structure.

Everything about this place was designed for power.

And she was standing in the heart of it.

Caelan gave a short nod to the two guards posted near the arena’s entrance. “Leave us.”

Without hesitation, they turned and strode out, the heavy doors thudding shut behind them.

Silence returned—thicker now, expectant.

Caelan didn’t look at her right away. He moved to the center of the arena, stopping only once he stood inside one of the faint silver rings etched into the floor.

Then he turned.

“Let’s start with the bond.”

His voice shifted—commanding, precise.

“Come here,” he said, pointing to a spot directly in front of him. “And don’t move a muscle.”

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Emily’s body obeyed before her mind could catch up.

Her feet carried her forward, slow and steady, until she stood exactly where he’d pointed—close enough to feel the subtle pull of his presence, like standing near a bonfire you weren’t sure you could trust.

Caelan stepped forward.

Just one step.

But it closed the distance until they were inches apart. The air between them shifted, thick with something electric. Emily’s breath caught in her throat.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

She did. Immediately.

His silver eyes met hers—glinting, steady, impossible to look away from.

Caelan studied her for a moment, then asked, “Can you resist me?”

Emily swallowed hard. Her heart thundered in her chest.

Her voice came out as barely a whisper. “No.”

Another beat passed.

“Can you move?”

Emily tried. She— tried. Her muscles tensed, her jaw clenched—but nothing happened. Not an inch.

“No,” she breathed again, softer this time.

She's frozen in this spot staring at those beautiful eyes. Deep down, beneath the bond, beneath the compulsion—part of her didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to break this strange, charged moment. Not yet.

Caelan’s eyes swept over her face, then up slightly.

He noticed her hair.

“I prefer your hair down,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Take it down.”

Her hands moved instantly.

With swift, practiced motions, she unraveled the bun. Her hair tumbled down the left side of her face in dark waves, cascading over her shoulders and down her back.

Caelan watched.

Watched it fall. Watched her.

His gaze darkened, flickering with something she didn’t have a name for—heat, hunger. His eyes roamed over her, unhurried. Unapologetic.

Emily felt her skin warm beneath that look, every inch of her suddenly seen.

And she was loving it.

The way he looked at her—like she was something powerful and fragile all at once—made her bones melt.

Then Caelan blinked, as if waking from a spell. He cleared his throat sharply and took a few steps back, turning away as if to shield them both from what had just passed between them.

His voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“…Right. That confirms part of it.”

When he turned back to her, his expression had cooled—more composed now, but still watchful. The hunger in his eyes was gone, tucked neatly behind calculation and restraint.

“You responded to my earlier commands without hesitation,” he said. “Let’s test another variable.”

Emily swallowed, still standing motionless in front of him. Her hands hung at her sides. Her legs refused to budge. “Okay,” she said softly.

“I’m going to tell you not to speak,” he said. “Try to resist it.”

She nodded—or tried to. Nothing happened. Her head remained completely still.

“Right,” she muttered. “Still can’t move.”

Caelan’s gaze sharpened. “Then just focus on your voice. Fight it. Ready?”

She gave a tiny exhale. “Sure.”

He waited a beat. “Don’t speak.”

The moment the words left his mouth, she felt it—a cold pressure locking around her throat. Not choking, but clamping down with silent insistence.

She tried to speak. Her lips twitched, parted. Her throat clenched.

And then—

“I’m sorry, were you expecting that to work?” she said, voice scratchy but audible.

Caelan blinked. Just once.

The pressure didn’t vanish, but it didn’t tighten either.

“I told you not to speak,” he said calmly.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Emily said, breath catching slightly as she forced another sentence out. “Apparently your magical shush command doesn’t work if I’m annoyed enough.”

Caelan tilted his head, intrigued. “So physical movement is fully blocked—but speech can be resisted.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed. “I’m glad I could be of service in your magical science fair.”

He huffed—a sound just shy of a laugh. “You’re still frozen in place.”

“Trust me,” she muttered, “I noticed that too.”

His eyes slid over her again, sharp and evaluating. “Interesting. Verbal commands seem partially resistible, but location and posture remain locked.”

“Well, that’s just great,” she said.

Caelan took a slow breath, gaze never leaving hers. Then, softly: “You can move.”

The second the words hit the air, Emily staggered forward half a step, catching herself on instinct. Her knees nearly buckled with the sudden return of control.

She let out a shaky breath and straightened. “Okay. That was awful.”

Caelan raised an eyebrow. “But useful.”

She gave him a flat look. “You really don’t have to enjoy this so much.”

His lips curved slightly. “I’m not.”

“Liar,” she muttered, rubbing her arms where the tension had locked in place.

Caelan stepped back, giving her space. “We’ll need to repeat some of that later—with distance and disruption variables.”

“Great. Can’t wait.” She exhaled and rolled her shoulders. “So… that the whole test?”

His smirk was slow this time. “Not quite.”

Caelan drew in a slow breath. “Alright. We already know the pain is shared. Physical injuries, too.”

Emily frowned. “Well, I don’t know that for sure.”

His brow lifted. “You don’t?”

She crossed her arms. “It obviously hurt me when you were cut, but that first one—the one that made you stop? It didn’t look like it hurt you at all.”

Caelan’s silver gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “Oh, trust me. The pain is shared. I felt it.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just turned slightly, like it didn’t matter.

Emily opened her mouth to push, but he was already shifting gears.

“Let’s try something different. Close your eyes,” he said. “Try to empty your mind. Relax.”

She gave him a flat look. “That’s easier said than done.”

A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Try anyway.”

With a quiet huff, she obeyed. Her eyes slipped shut. Her arms dropped to her sides.

Silence stretched.

At first, all she could hear was the rush of her own thoughts. A whirl of worry and what-ifs. But slowly—so slowly—she focused on her breath. The weight of her limbs. The warmth of the air against her skin. The sound of distant wind.

Then…

Something shifted.

A weight settled low in her stomach—not fear, not nerves. Something heavier. Sicker. A deep, dragging ache that didn’t belong to her.

Her brows furrowed. Her breath hitched. It was like swallowing grief that wasn’t hers. An echo of guilt so strong it made her feel dizzy, nauseous, wrong.

Her eyes flew open.

Caelan was still in front of her, but his gaze had dropped, his expression shuttered—except for the raw emotion written across his face. The tension in his jaw.

“…Is this from you?” she whispered. “Is this what you’re feeling?”

He nodded once.

She swallowed thickly, her voice softer now. “Why do you feel like this?”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Caelan looked at her then—really looked. His voice was low when he spoke.

“I was thinking about what it felt like,” he said, “knowing that my actions caused you harm.”

Emily didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

That wasn’t just magic. That was him. His guilt, poured through the bond like water into a cracked bowl.

She didn’t know what to say. So, she said nothing.

But she didn’t look away either.

Caelan was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable once again.

Then, softly: “Let’s try something else.”

Emily straightened slightly. “What now?”

“I want to see if the bond reflects emotional resonance in both directions.” He met her gaze, more cautious now. “Close your eyes again. Think of the happiest moment of your life. Not the memory—just the feeling. Focus on that. Let it rise. I’ll try to… listen.”

Emily blinked. “You want me to get all sentimental and project sunshine at you?”

Caelan didn’t react, except to close his eyes. “Try.”

She stared at him. Silent. His face was still, jaw taut, brows drawn with faint concentration. And suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

Happy moment?

What did that even mean anymore?

Her thoughts scrambled. Christmas mornings as a kid. The day she got into med school. Laughing with her best friend in the middle of a rainy street with a coffee in her hand and her scrubs soaked. But none of them felt real right now—not vivid enough to rise above the crackling tension in the air between them.

So she gave up on happy memories.

And chose a different feeling instead.

It hit her.

That first moment in the ritual chamber when his voice commanded her—come here—and her body obeyed before her mind could catch up. That jolt of terrifying, electric thrill she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. How it settled somewhere low in her stomach like heat pooling from nowhere.

Then the throne room.

Kneeling.

Looking up at him while he towered above her in full command of the room, his voice cold and calm and utterly in control. She hadn’t let herself think about how badly she’d wanted him in that moment—how much she wanted him to look at her like he owned her.

And then… this morning.

The smell of him.

The water clinging to the edges of his curls. The warmth of his voice so close to her ear, that slow smirk tugging at his mouth. Her heart had pounded, her legs had gone soft beneath her, and something sharp and wanting had lit up between her thighs like a match to dry grass.

She felt heat rise in her again now, sharp and immediate. It filled her, roared through her. She didn’t try to stop it.

Caelan’s eyes flew open.

His breath caught in his chest—sharp, audible. His eyes locked on her, wide with something that looked like panic and hunger all tangled together.

“That’s not—” He exhaled hard, jaw tight. “That’s not what I asked for.”

Emily’s lips curled into a slow smirk. She tilted her head. “I know.”

Caelan took a step back like he needed the distance. His hand flexed slightly at his side, the other raking once through his curls. His breathing was uneven, his silver eyes burning with restrained chaos.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, voice hoarse, “what were you thinking of?”

Emily folded her arms and leaned her weight to one hip, all faux innocence. “Oh, I could never reveal that,” she said sweetly. “Too personal.”

His gaze narrowed slightly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m a servant,” she said innocently. “Totally harmless.”

He made a sound in his throat that was almost a laugh—but not quite.

And definitely not safe.

Caelan took another step back, visibly trying to compose himself. The flicker of heat in his gaze hadn't vanished entirely, but he buried it under cool restraint. Barely.

“We should… move on,” he said, voice rough at the edges.

Emily arched a brow. “To what? More soulbond experiments? Or are we skipping straight to swordplay and blood rituals?”

His lips twitched—just enough to betray that she’d gotten to him.

“We’re done with the bond for now,” he said. “You’ve… demonstrated enough.” His voice dipped ever so slightly on the last word before he cleared his throat again and straightened. “We’ll start your magical training next. If you have any.”

“So… beginner witchcraft?” she said, stepping a little farther into the center of the ring.

Caelan raised a brow. “More like breathing with intention. But yes—witchcraft if it helps.”

He moved toward a stack of crates in the far corner, selecting a few small items from within—a smooth stone, a metal rod, and what looked like a carved wooden block. He set them down on the arena floor in front of her.

“Try to move them,” he said. “With magic, not your hands. Focus. Will it.”

Emily looked down at the objects, then back up at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She took a deep breath. Reached out with her will.

The stone shot backward so fast it clanged off the far wall.

Caelan blinked.

Emily stared. “I… didn’t mean to do that.”

He said nothing. Just bent, set the other two in place again, and gestured for her to keep going.

The wooden block lifted clean off the ground, hovered for a moment, then rotated mid-air before drifting back down like a leaf.

The metal rod spun like a compass needle before snapping upright and standing motionless on its end.

Emily stepped back, chest rising fast.

Caelan let out a slow exhale.

“Well,” he said. “That’s… uncommon.”

Emily crossed her arms. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not bad,” he said carefully. “It’s just… not what I expected.”

He watched her a moment longer, then said, “Let’s move to what your classification mark actually grants you. Servants have a few documented abilities—usually passive, and sometimes difficult to detect without testing.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “Such as?”

He began listing them off:

“One—Resonant Sensing. You should be able to feel shifts in my emotional or physical state. Empathy, sometimes even danger sensing, gets stronger with time.”

“Two—Protective Echo. When close to me, you may redirect magical damage. Early on, it’s reflexive. Painful. But it can be controlled.”

“Three—Echo Recall. Occasionally, when you’re near me and emotions are high, you might see fragments of my recent memories.”

“Four—Voicebind, or Wordcatch. If I say your name in pain or danger, you’ll hear it. No matter how far away you are.”

He paused. His tone didn’t change, but his eyes did.

“That’s the public list.”

Emily tilted her head. “Meaning?”

“Nothing else you need to worry about yet,” he said.

She frowned—but let it go.

Caelan stepped slightly closer again. “I want to try something else,” he said at last, his voice low, almost distracted. “Another soul technique. Combat-focused.”

Emily arched a brow. “You’re not going to cut me again, are you?”

“Not exactly.” Caelan’s hand lifted, and the air between them thinned. Something sharp shimmered into being—an ethereal blade, flickering with fractured soul energy. It had no true edge, no gleam of steel—just a ghost of a weapon.

Emily’s breath caught. “That’s new.”

“Echo Blade,” Caelan said simply. “It cuts through soul and flesh alike. Most can’t even see it. This is the first time I’ve formed one outside of combat.”

He lifted the blade slowly.

“I’m not going to aim at you,” he said. “I’m going to throw it toward the wall. But I want to see what your magic does in response.”

Emily stiffened. “You want to hit the wall and… what? See if I jump in the way?”

“I want to see if your magic redirects it,” he said calmly. “Protective Echo. It may trigger on its own.”

“And if it does?” she asked, uncertain.

“You might feel it. Slightly.” He paused. “Maybe more than slightly.”

“Oh, great,” she muttered. “Let’s just casually test if I spontaneously take magical bullets for you.”

Caelan’s gaze sharpened. “You’ll be fine.”

Emily gave him a dry look. “You’re really bad at comfort.”

“Good,” he said. “You shouldn’t be comfortable.”

Before she could answer, he shifted his stance—and flung the Echo Blade.

It moved like lightning, jagged and fast, streaking not toward her but toward the far wall of the arena.

But halfway through its arc, it shimmered—twisted—snapped sideways midair like it had struck an invisible barrier and rebounded.

Right toward her.

Emily gasped. Her body tensed, but she didn’t move.

The blade collided with something just in front of her—a pulse of force flared out from her chest, invisible but violent. It caught the blade, twisted it again, and flung it sideways. The weapon cracked into the stone near the archway and fizzled into nothing.

Emily staggered.

A flash of burning pain lanced across her side, like someone had punched her ribs with a hot rod. She winced, doubling over slightly, catching herself on her knees.

“Are you alright?” Caelan was already at her side.

She nodded tightly. “Yeah. Just—ow.”

He knelt beside her, studying her face.

“So it triggered,” she said, straightening. “I didn’t choose that. It just… happened.”

He nodded. “That’s the point. It’s reflexive. Protective Echo activates without conscious effort—especially when the threat is soul-based.”

“Fantastic,” she muttered. “I’m basically a magical lightning rod for you.”

Caelan smirked faintly. “You’ll learn to use it. Eventually, you can direct it.”

She looked at him. “Did you mean to hit me with that?”

He paused. “No.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

“Okay,” he added. “Not directly.”

“Unbelievable,” she said, brushing her hair back. “If I die in training, I swear I’m haunting you.”

Caelan’s smirk deepened. “You’re not going to die, Emily.”

His voice was quiet. Certain.

Something about it made her chest ache.

And she believed him.

Emily rubbed her side where the pain still throbbed faintly beneath her ribs. The blade was gone now—vanished like smoke—but its echo lingered.

She turned to Caelan, still breathing a little hard. “So… if you can make that thing—” she gestured toward the spot where the blade had vanished “—why were you trying to summon another weapon in the first place?”

Caelan glanced at her, eyes flicking toward the scorched wall, then back. “Because that wasn’t a real blade,” he said. “That was just an Echo.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “You named it Echo Blade.”

“It’s what it is,” he said with a shrug. “A fractured projection—an echo of a weapon shaped by my soul. It’s powerful, yes. But it’s still only half of what it could be.”

She frowned. “So… what would the full version be?”

Caelan’s expression shifted slightly. His eyes darkened—not cold, but distant, like he was staring at something far away.

“A soulbound weapon,” he said. “Forged not from a memory or projection, but from a complete tether. Permanent. Anchored. Part of me.”

He held up his hand, fingers splayed. “With a full bond, I could summon it instantly. Channel everything through it. The echo is unstable—fragile, in comparison. A real soul weapon is nearly indestructible. It listens to your thoughts. Acts like an extension of your will.”

Emily was quiet for a beat.

“So that’s what the summoning ritual was supposed to do,” she said slowly. “Give you that?”

He nodded once.

“And instead,” she added dryly, “you got me.”

Caelan’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Not exactly the blade I pictured.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. I bite.”

His smirk deepened. “I’ve noticed.”

Caelan stepped back, his expression returning to something more neutral.

“That’s enough for today,” he said. “We’ll break for lunch.”

Emily blinked. “That’s it?”

“For now,” he replied. “We’ve already confirmed more than I expected. Meet me in the library afterward. We’ll start researching the bond—see who we might be able to consult.”

With that, he turned and strode toward the arena doors, leaving Emily standing alone in the ring of soul-lit stone.

Emily stepped into the sunlight at the edge of the arena and blinked. The pale light hit her full in the face, warm and golden, and for the first time in hours she noticed the sky—open and impossibly wide above the high stone walls.

She tilted her head back, squinting. “Huh,” she murmured to herself. “Didn’t realize it was that late.”

The sunlight had shifted—midday, maybe later. Had they really been in there that long?